Barda's Memories
by homesweethomicide13
Summary: A collection of memories from Barda's past.
1. Becoming A Guard

Title: Barda's Memories

Author: homesweethomicide13

Rating: T

Pairing: None specified, though has hints of Barda's girlfriends

Warning: May contain foul language, violence and other offensive material further on into the story.

Disclaimer: The only things in this story that I own, are the people / names not mentioned in any of the Deltora Books (such as the palace guards, the chief, the girl Katy, and Barda's three best friends)

Summary: A collection of memories from Barda's past.

_Author's Note: I just had this idea come to me earlier today and had to write it before I forgot about it. Since we do not know much about Barda, I have given him some past. Remember, this is only the work of my mind, none of this is true, and it's just the product of my mind. I know none of it seems like Barda's character, but I believe that he wasn't always such a... guarded character. I believe that the time after the Shadow Lord hardened him, as did the death of his mother. I portray him as a boy very much like Lief - have you not seen how, though he scolds Lief and Jasmine a lot for being foolish (not always obviously), he doesn't seem to get too angry? I've used that to create the image of a teenage Barda very much like the two teens from DQ, and that's why he doesn't always get angry with them. Cause he knows he was once exactly like them. I apologize for any strange events in this story, but I doubt Barda had a very normal life. Also (sorry, I know I'm rambling) I've given him a father. Since we know nothing of Barda's father (who he was, his name, what he did, where he went... etc) I've created a man known as David, who was Barda's father. I've also added my own details to the Guard system (the separate platoons, for example, the status of the superiors, and the entrance age to the 'Academy' is meant to be ten, but Barda got in at the age of seven, which is also when his father disappeared.) I'll let you read the story now..._

* * *

Barda's Memories

* * *

Memory #1: Becoming A Guard

* * *

I can still remember clearly the day I became a palace guard. It was a surprise to me, as I was half expecting Alex – my irritating superior guard who, by the way, had it in for me – to find some excuse as to why I shouldn't qualify. So, when my name was called out for Platoon 12, Series A, Rank 7, I couldn't believe it. In fact, I was so startled that the guy standing behind me had to shove me forward so as not to miss my call. I can still remember every detail of that moment when I walked up to collect my uniform. 

Of course, I'd never wear that uniform. That was just for show, and no doubt it would not fit any of the guards, except perhaps Zelta. He was, after all, the shortest of us all. No, our real uniform would have to be fitted perfectly to us, and that was where the fun started. I mean… who ever heard of a man knowing how to take measurements?

We were to be fitted by women.

This of course earned a few dirty sniggers from some of the other boys, who were no doubt thinking the sort of things one's mother would scold you for. But it was in all of our heads. Our Chief had a great sense of humour, and obviously knew from the moment he mentioned the fittings that us young boys would be looking forward to the women, and so he casually said if we were lucky we'd get a nice young girl, instead of a more… matured woman.

I was one of the lucky ones.

She was definitely young – no more than eighteen, no younger than fourteen. She had dead straight blonde hair, falling down past her shoulders to her mid-back. Her face was well defined, with a slender jaw, a petite nose, full, perfect lips, and high cheekbones. Her most prominent feature were her eyes – a dazzling shade of blue, almost like my own. She smiled nervously at me as I entered the fitting room, and I could tell that this was going to be a lot of fun. After all, what else would a sixteen-year-old boy think about other than girls?

She started with the trousers. She pulled a tape measure out of nowhere and approached me with caution, resembling a deer that had come across something unknown. I gave her my best grin, flicking my chin-length black hair out of my face casually. Whether it was the grin, or just because I was an incredibly dashing young boy – insert vanity here – she seemed to relax, and looped the tape measure around my waist.

"My, you have such a small waist for a boy of your age!" I remember her exclaiming, before covering her mouth when she realized what she had said. I told her it was okay, and that I got comments like that all the time. She gave me another nervous smile and wrote down the measurement in a notebook she also materialized out of absolute nowhere. I figured it must have been a female thing, something I'd never understand.

Then she measured my legs. This was where I had the most fun – after all, I was a teenage boy. It's all we think about, seriously. The outside leg part was pretty uneventful, except for the faint blush on her cheeks as she knelt in front of me. Writing down the measurements, she moved to the inside leg measurements.

Oh boy.

Trust me, when you're sixteen years old, and have a pretty girl on her knees in front of you, with her hands on your inside thigh, it's hard not to start thinking dirty thoughts. If my mother knew what was going through my mind at the moment, she'd have poured soap down my ear, it was that filthy. It was over all too quickly for me, and she was standing up, jotting down my measurements. Then she disappeared around a corner, and I let out the breath I wasn't aware I'd been holding.

She returned with a pair of pale blue trousers, with gold thread along the edges. I took them from her and she led me to a curtained-off area. I stepped inside and she drew the curtain across, telling me to come out when I was ready. Smirking to myself, I stripped off the scruffy black jeans I was wearing, and unbuckled my sword, tossing it down onto the floor with a muffled clang. I lifted the blue trousers off their hanger and slipped my legs in, pulling them up around my waist. As I fastened them, I glanced in the full-length mirror and stifled a groan. They fit perfectly around my waist but…

I walked out, and she had her back to me.

"Do they fit okay?" She asked, turning around. She stopped and stared.

"The waist does. The legs, however…"

I was pretty certain that the legs were not supposed to stop halfway down your shins. She muttered an 'oh', and disappeared again, returning with another pair. Before I knew what she was doing, she had her hands on my legs again, and was frowning in thought. She checked something on her notebook and nodded, before telling me to try on the new pair. Grinning my thanks, I returned to the enclosed changing area, and pulled off the offending pair. Giving no thought to them, I tossed them on the floor in a heap, much like I'd do when changing at home. I quickly pulled on the new pair, and grinned when they fit perfectly in the legs. Of course… this was me. Something was bound to go wrong.

"Um… slight problem…" I walked out, grasping tightly to the waistline. She almost burst out laughing. "Last time I checked, I wasn't this huge." I pulled at the waistline, showing just how much space there was inside. "You can get like, three of me in here!" I barely managed to hold back the 'wanna try?' I was about to add. Laughing quietly to herself, she re-checked my measurements (two minutes of pure bliss) before going off again, leaving me to cling onto those cursed trousers. I was scared that should I let go, they'd fall down. She returned with a third pair, telling me they were the only pair she had that would fit reasonably well without looking ridiculous.

I took them in one hand and hurried to change. I grinned as they fit snugly on my hips – instead of around the waist, like they were supposed to, but since when have I done what I was supposed to do? I drew back the curtain with a flourish and she cheered when she saw that they weren't falling down, nor did I look like I was wearing three-quarters. However, she did hand me a belt and told me to put it on, just in case.

Then it was time for the shirt. To get proper measurements, she told me I'd have to take off the one I was wearing.

It was off before she had finished speaking.

This was where I found out she had cold hands. She pulled out her tape measure (where the hell does she keep it?) and looped it around my back, pulling it tight around my chest, and then noting down whatever measurement it had told her. Frowning, she turned back to me, and placed her hands either side of my chest, on the overly sensitive skin just underneath my biceps. I gave an involuntary squeak.

"Cold hands." I murmured sheepishly when she gave me an odd, amused look. She laughed, obviously more comfortable around me than earlier, and went round behind me, to measure the width of my shoulders. She then measured the length of my arms – involving more squeaks as cold fingers brushed sensitive skin – and went to find me a shirt.

I bet she was glad when she was done with me.

The first shirt she gave me fit nicely around my middle and chest, but wouldn't go over my shoulders, and therefore would not do up right. The second shirt she gave me fit around my middle and chest, and went over my shoulders, and did up right. However, the sleeves were too long. I could tell she was getting frustrated with me, but she didn't voice her frustrations. I gave her credit for that. I'd have been swearing by now. The third shirt (I always seem to come in threes…) fit perfectly all over, to her relief. I told her with a laugh that my mother had the same problem trying to find me clothes.

When it came to the jacket – which I grew to despise with a fiery passion – it was pretty easy. It only came in three sizes – Small, Medium and Large. Because of my broad shoulders and lanky arms, she gave me a large.

The boots were simple, too. Asides from the fact she had to go to the larger storeroom to find ones big enough. Hey – I was a tall boy, okay? She was clearing out the changing area and picking up the various items of clothing when she picked up my sword, and my clothes from earlier. As I was admiring myself in the mirror – I wasn't vain, I was just amazed at how different I looked – she folded my clothes, placed my sword on top of them and handed them to me with a smile, and another faint blush. I thanked her, and buckled the sword to my belt. I shoved my old clothes into a bag and turned to leave. However, I turned back to say a final thanks and stopped. She was folding the discarded clothes, bent over slightly as she balanced them neatly on a chair, her long hair tucked behind one ear.

I guess it was my mother's way of bringing me up – polite and with plenty of manners – that made me smile at her and offer to take her out somewhere. I almost forgot to ask her name, but I remembered just in time. Of course, I offered mine before asking. It paid off though. Katy did, after all, become my girlfriend. My three closest friends – Bobby, Jordan and Colin, who we all called Spitz – grumbled their annoyance. I soon found out that they had not been so lucky with their fitting women. (Insert smug grin here.)

* * *

My first day of work is still fresh in my mind. The day started out pretty normal – it was a Saturday, if I remember rightly – and I was woken by my mother at the ungodly hour of seven a.m. (School – if you could call it that – started at nine, so I didn't usually get up til half eight.) I remember almost falling asleep in my morning shower, and it took me nearly an hour to get my uniform on. Of course, being new, it was stiff and uncomfortable – not exactly the kind of thing I'd choose to wear first thing in the morning. I straightened out the uniform and ran a hand through my wet hair, hoping it would lie flat once it dried. 

But that never happened.

I buckled my sword to my belt, and as I went to leave the room, my eyes caught sight of the pale blue headband I had worn for nine years. All training guards had them. They all had to wear them, to mark them as trainee guards, and so permitted them to carry a sword. It was a rule that children were not allowed to carry a weapon, and if there was need of it, no weapon bigger than a dagger. I had worn it with pride in my first three years, but once I'd reached ten, I got bored of it and hated wearing it. The only time I wore it on my head – usually I wore it around my arm or something similar – was when I was duelling, or training especially hard, and it kept my unruly hair out of my eyes. I ran my finger and thumb over the material thoughtfully. I'd never have to wear it again.

My stiff, pale blue uniform allowed me to carry a sword now.

I was not surprised when my mother tried to flatten out my quickly drying hair, and brushed off invisible dirt from my jacket. I groaned when I realized why she'd woken me so early – there was our traditional painter sat on a chair, his easel in front of him. My mother wanted a picture to remember my first day as a palace guard.

I then went on to where we were supposed to meet our superiors, and the Chief. I stood in line with the other members of my platoon, and gazed around at the other platoons, lined up in specific locations on the parade ground. Behind me and my fifteen fellows was Platoon 12, Series B – and behind them were the members of Platoon 12, Series C. Looking around, there were quite a lot of us. Everyone was standing to attention, hoping to look smart for their superiors. And me? I had found the perfect use for the slightly deeper pockets of my trousers.

They were the perfect place to stick my hands.

I knew I looked out of place between the immaculate guards. The trousers – as they were slightly large on me – were slightly baggy, and my jacket was lifted up slightly around the bottom due to the position of my arms, and the hands in my pockets. My boots already had scuffmarks on the toes, and I knew I'd get scolded for it. My hair was now completely dry, and so stuck out in odd angles, the back so untidy that it looked as though I'd only just got out of bed. I was the only guard with long hair. All the others had close cut, or neatly cropped hair, perfectly neat and tame. I could imagine what life as palace guard was going to be like for me.

Beside me, my friend Jordan shuffled nervously. He was slightly shorter than me, and his chestnut-brown hair was just past the 'neat' border. His green eyes watched the doors to the palace, awaiting our superiors. I quietly told him to relax, and he looked at me properly, and almost laughed. He said I looked as untidy as usual. I replied with my trademark grin.

The superiors emerged from the palace, all immaculate and well disciplined. They formed two lines, and held their swords above their heads, the points meeting those of the opposite man's. They had formed a walkway, through which walked a man all of us had come to know so well.

Chief Ashton.

He walked at a steady pace around each of the platoons, all the guards raising their right hands in a salute. He nodded briskly at each guard, and they lowered their hands one by one. He finally came to my platoon, and repeated the actions he had done with the others. He stopped directly in front of me, and looked me over. Here it comes, I remember thinking, the first warning of the day. And as I stood there, waiting for the yelling to start, something amazing happened.

He laughed.

I'm not joking. He seriously laughed. Hysterically. Everyone stared at him in shock and amazement, and I just stood there giving him my trademark 'what the hell?' look. And then, as quickly as it had started, he stopped laughing. And looked at me.

"What's your name, kid?" He asked me. I remember having to bite back a remark that I wasn't a kid, and calmly answered with my name. He chuckled. "Typical. Your father was the same." At the mention of my father, I stiffened up. Nine years had passed since I had last seen him. "Tell your mother I said hello." With that, he walked on. I was amazed at two things. One, he knew my mother. Two, he hadn't yelled at me for looking so untidy.

At that point, I was glad to have such a good Chief.


	2. David

_Author's Note: I just had to give him a father, and a reason why Barda now hardly shows emotion. It's all down to his father._

**Disclaimer:** I own David, Jordan, Bobby, Colin, Nickolas and the guards from the Academy, and the Academy itself. The rest belongs to Emily Rodda.

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Memory #2: David

* * *

Many people remember my father. My mother always told me about him, but I guess that's not really the same. I mean, I did know him – hell, I knew him for seven years – but, in a way, I didn't know him. He was a very secretive, withdrawn man, and I know that he was a feared palace guard. 

One of my memories of my father was when I was five years old, and – in his eyes – big enough to hold a sword. He was also a very proud man, and wanted his first and only son – his only _child_ – to follow in his footsteps. Wherever he went, he wore his deputy's uniform with pride, and his fellows all knew he was hoping to take over the position of Chief when the current one either died or gave up the job. He was a strong man, and – some say – a savage when it came to fighting.

I was perfectly willing to agree with that. My father scared me; there was no question about it. I was a good boy, everyone said. That's only because I was scared to do anything wrong. And so, when he held out his sword to me, hilt-first, I took it. It was heavy in my hands but I gripped it tightly, hoping not to disappoint my father. For a moment he had stared at me, and I'd felt myself shivering slightly, nervous and afraid that I had done something I shouldn't have.

But then he smiled.

That's the one thing I keep to myself about my father. Outside of our family home, everyone saw the fierce, savage David, deputy palace guard. However, my mother and me saw the loving, caring David, the husband and the father.

I soon realized why he had smiled. Even at five I was a fighter, it seemed. Though I was holding the sword in both hands, due to its unfamiliar weight, I was apparently standing in a battle-stance, and there was – according to my father – determination in my eyes. A born warrior, he called me. And thus began the lessons that would take over the next two years of my life.

He taught me how to wield a sword properly, and I soon learnt that I could hold it in one hand, instead of two. He gave me a smaller, weaker sword than his to practice with, and with that I built up my swordplay. My mother wasn't always happy with the idea of her beloved five-year-old son practicing swordplay, but my father had a way with people that made them see his point of view.

I believe we call it a glare, nowadays.

He was determined that his only child was going to be a warrior, just like him. I felt that even if I had been a girl, I'd have undergone the same treatment. When I reached the age of six, he gave me my first weapon – a small, lethal dagger with a decorative handle. I soon realized that he was going to teach me how to throw it properly.

My mother wasn't too happy about the holes in the wall.

Whilst all this was still good, I soon noticed a change in my father. He was becoming stricter with me, to the point where he was talking to me like he would his guards. I didn't know if it had been something I'd done, but I had a feeling that I had disappointed him in some way, and this led to me training twice as much as I used to.

But nothing seemed to make him happy. He'd continually criticise my swordplay, and other weapons skills, and tell me that I'd never make a good guard if I didn't start working hard. Three times he had me reduced to tears, which annoyed him further.

"Big boys don't cry," He had hissed at me the third time, taking my arm and glaring at me. But what was a six-year-old to do? I didn't like the change that had taken place in my father, and I wanted the old him back. The father who was not afraid to show that he loved his son, the father that would let me fall asleep in his arms – the father I loved.

I grew to hate this father.

When I was seven, I began to stick up for myself for once, and when he criticised my training, I'd come back with a snappy response, which would anger him. My mother always tried to get him to ease off a little, but he was stubborn, and ignored her pleas. However, even my loving, gentle mother could get angry.

I always remember this with a smile.

He had come to me in my room, where I was practicing my swordplay, and he had told me that I wasn't a proper warrior; I was just a pathetic palace brat. My retort had been so sharp that he hit me. For the first time in a year, I cried. I, like my father, had come to hide my emotions, hoping that he would be proud that I was really following in his footsteps. I had run to my mother, my face still stinging from the blow, and she had approached my father, fuming.

And she had hit him.

No one would ever believe me if I told them. But the sweet, gentle Min that everyone knew and loved would protect her son from anything, even if it was her husband. He never dared to hit me again.

It was after a particular argument with my father that drove me to the Palace Guard Academy. The previous night, I had been throwing my dagger, trying to get it into the center of the target on my wall, and he had come in. At first I had thought he was going to snipe at me for something, but to my surprise he pulled me into an embrace and held me close. Startled, I did nothing, and then I threw my arms around his neck and returned the embrace.

"I'm sorry, kid, I'm sorry…" He had whispered. He pulled away and looked over me, and I remember seeing hints of tears in his eyes. "A born warrior." He ruffled my hair affectionately (the last time he had done that was two years earlier) and told me he was proud of how far I'd come, and made me promise I would never change for anyone else. And then he gave me his sword – the precious sword he had owned since he was a boy, and told me it was mine now. After that, he left my room, leaving me – to say the least – rather stunned.

However the next morning was a clear contrast. We'd argued and he had called me a pathetic palace brat once again. Angry, I had stormed from the room, trying to ignore the feel of the sword banging against my leg. That anger – and the determination to prove him wrong – led me to the Palace Guard Academy. Here, young boys could sign up to attend the Academy, to train up to be palace guards. The minimum joining age was ten, for reasons I did not know, and so I knew if I got in now, he'd be proud of me. If I got in three years early, it would prove to him that I wasn't a pathetic palace brat.

They'd laughed at me when I said I wanted to sign up. There were three guards in the room – two were the guards you'd have to fight to get into the Academy. They were selected from the lowest rank of guards, and the boys signing up weren't expected to defeat them, just put up a good fight. The third guard was, I later found out, the Chief himself. Whilst the other two laughed, the Chief had looked at me with amusement – the same amusement he would always regard me with.

"Give him a go." He had said to his guards. They had gaped at him, and asked him if he was serious. Wordlessly, he had motioned for him to attack me.

Now, like I said earlier, the boys signing up weren't expected to defeat the guard who attacked them. And so when I had managed to pin the guard to the floor, they all stared at me in shock. Well, my three years of training with my father had come to some use, after all. After I had defeated the guard, the Chief had asked to see my sword. Bowing politely, I drew it and passed it to him, hilt-first, like my father had done to me all those years ago. He inspected it for a moment, and the guard I hadn't beaten gasped.

"Could it be?" He had whispered. The Chief nodded, and turned to me.

"What's your name, kid?" He would later ask me that very same question, but that is of no importance. I lifted my chin proudly.

"Barda." The Chief smiled and handed back my sword. Then, with a gesture to the other guard, he had pulled out a sheet of paper, and wrote upon it. This he then handed to me, with a pale blue headband.

"Well then Barda, take this home to your parents." He grinned. "Welcome to the Academy, young sir." To say I was surprised would be an understatement. I bowed again, spluttered out my thanks and ran from the room, grinning. Surely this would make him proud of me. I remember running through the palace, happy, not caring about the strange and dirty looks I was getting from the nobles and their children.

I stopped and looked at the headband in my hands and, grinning, I put it on. It felt strange against my forehead, but it marked me as an Academy student. I passed a group of guards, and they all grinned as I went past, recognizing the headband. I heard whispers as I ran off.

"Hey, that kid looks a bit young to be in the Academy!"

"Nah, that's David's boy."

"Explains everything then."

Though I had a growing hatred for my father, I felt a surge of pride for him. He was recognized as one of the best guards of his time, and they all clearly thought I was going to follow him.

I couldn't wait to get home and show him the award in my hand. How could he call me pathetic after this? I, a boy of seven, had managed to get into the Academy – _three years early!_ He _had_ to be proud of me.

And so, it came as a shock to me when he wasn't at home. I ran into my house in the palace to find my mother sitting alone on the couch, tears in her eyes. The smile had faded from my face and I went to her sitting beside her and putting an arm around her. She smiled sadly at me.

"Mother, where is father? I… I have something to show him." I tried to smile, but found I couldn't.

"Oh sweetheart, he's gone."

"Gone? To work?" I was confused. Why would she be upset that he had gone to work? He did it every day.

"No, sweetheart." She paused. "They've taken him. They came and took him from us, sweetheart." My heart stopped beating, and I couldn't breathe. They'd taken my father? But who was _they?_

"Who… who took him?" I choked out, feeling tears welling up in my eyes. No matter how much I hated my father, to know I was probably never going to see him again was terrible.

"Just some men, sweetheart. It doesn't matter who they were." She ran a hand over her eyes and smiled at me. "What did you want to show him?" Wordlessly, I handed over the paper the Chief had given me. She looked over it and gasped. "But you're only seven!"

"I know, mother. I got in early." I stared down at my hands in my lap. "I was hoping that… that father would be proud of me for once." I mumbled sadly. My mother put her arm around me and held me close to her.

"You know, he left us a note. It was in haste, so I presume he wrote it just as the men were coming to take him." She pulled it from her jacket and sighed. I looked at it.

_Min,_

_I am writing this in haste. I fear… I fear they have come. If this is the case, it may be some time before you and Barda will see me again._

_Please, tell Barda I am sorry for everything. Tell him I'm sorry for choosing his life for him, before he could even decide if he wanted to be a guard or not. Tell him I'm proud of him, and I always was. Most of all, tell him I love him._

_Please, Min, protect my beloved son as best you can. I must end this here, as I hear them coming._

_I love you,_

_David._

The tears that had been threatening to fall now did. Without another word to my mother, I jumped up and ran out of our home again. I ran past the guards from earlier, and after a shout of surprise, one came after me. He caught up to me and stopped me.

"You're Barda, aren't you?" He asked me. I nodded. "I knew your father, kid." _Kid._ Everyone seemed to call me that. It angered me, but I said nothing. This man was only trying to help. "Listen, I know what happened to him. It's spread round all the palace guards. We've all vowed to find the men that took him, and bring him back, but you've got to understand that it might take a while. Meanwhile, you concentrate on your training, okay? Then you'll be ready."

"For what?" I asked him.

"For getting your revenge on the men that stole your father from you." He smiled, and I felt at ease around him. "I know the two of you weren't always that close, but he was still your father, right?" I nodded. "Well, go on home. Your mother needs you." He walked back with me to the group of guards. "And I'll be seeing you in the Academy, little man!" When I turned to him in surprise, he grinned. "I work there, helping to train up our boys. The name's Nickolas-Clark Spitz." He raised a hand in farewell, and I returned it, smiling.

In three years time, I'd meet his son, Colin-Clark, and – with my long-time friend Jordan, and a new friend I'd make at the Academy, Bobby-James – the four of us would become close friends, always looking out for each other.

And I'd always be known as Barda, son of David. The boy who would become one of the bravest, strongest palace guards of all time.


End file.
